Momentary delight

She sat in front of me,
The perfect arch of her eyebrows
Twitching, as the winds blew
On her face, the smooth surface
Of her pointed nose, egging me
To explore further, as I looked down
On the creamy softness of her chest,
The soft sighing of her breasts,
Tickling my ears, ensnaring me,
If only those lips were deeper,
I would sip its sweetness, scarlet sour
Caressing, stroking the heaving
Wishing I had it down there,
To rip off all the facade,
Nevertheless, the throbbing desire
Sees no ire, as the beautiful form
Awakens all, in this momentary delight
I ALIGHT

In sickness and in health

When it came to maintaining good health, I always considered myself invulnerable. Discussions of diseases and prevention would always be in tones of high conceit interlaced with unflagging self-confidence. Yes, I was proud of my body’s uncanny ability to avoid disease.
However, it was both with much agitation and secret complacency that I found myself at the receiving end of viral fever.
Agitated because I lost three precious days I could have spent shopping, visiting relatives, going out with friends, watching movies. What else? GO TO OFFICE.
Yes it was the season for sickness. Everywhere people were falling prey to Malaria, Dengue, and Viral, not to forget big bro swine flu.
Still, I should have been the last person to be struck by the disease. I hardly eat from out. In fact, I eat decently healthy and spend 10 precious minutes everyday tolerating the daily ablutions.
Then again, I was not displeased with the turn of events. To speak the truth, the superciliousness over my cherubic health was just a façade to hide my body’s inability to contract anything remotely debilitating. It was not without some envy that I looked upon the invalids who could just loll about at home reading a book, and be tended to. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had fallen sick.
What’s more, I looked at disease as a wonderful way of losing weight. This is one time when even the best of foods refuse to arouse your palate. All the disdain and frustration reserved for the incorrigible world is suddenly directed at food. Food that once would have your tongue sodden with saliva suddenly is just a ritual to be borne every day.
Feeling smug, I prepared to attach myself to the invalid bed for three whole days.

Unfortunately, I could never be the perfect patient. Sickness, somehow, seemed to work the reverse in my case. It just made me hungry and hungrier by the day. Apparently, it was the antibiotics working its wonders on my supposedly fragile body.
To add to that, the excruciating pain in my head and the sore, dry throat that made every morsel of food an effort to swallow were not the best of feelings in the world. And I didn’t even lose any weight!
Finally, after three days of playing the supposed invalid, coughing up abundant phlegm and dripping slimy mucus all over I realised falling sick was after all not all that cool.
So, the next time I hear of viruses, infections and ailments, I will be looking up at the heavens, and joining hands in servile poise, will importunate the stars to spare my body the favour.

Those days of innocence

By: Manju S Chandran Date: 2010-06-16 Place: Mumbai


It's the start of yet another academic year. Little buds, gurgling with anticipation, welcome the sunshine that will transform them into discerning adults. Smart and self- important in their crisp new uniform, they are ready to embark on a new journey that will traverse the many vicissitudes of life. I still remember my first day in school. Fed on stories of termagant teachers, of ears turned sour owing to constant pinching, and of raps on knuckles at perceivable signs of naughtiness, it was not without some trepidation that ” palms tightly clasped in my father's ” I entered the school precincts.

But my anxieties were soon laid to rest as the genial teacher, led me gingerly into the class and settled me on a comfortable chair. Looking around, I was struck by the sea of faces that seemed ready to break into tears at any moment. Many were already bawling and it was matter of seconds before I joined them, as I beheld my teacher shutting the door on my father's face. Amidst blobs of tears, I tried hard to catch a glimpse of his face in the melting crowd of parents. This image still vividly flashes in my mind, when I see the same events recurring every year with yet another child.

After that, the start of each of the 12 years in school was a like a journey into the unknown. It would stir myriads of questions. Who would be my class teacher? Will I be in the same class as my best friend? Who would sit next to me? How many new students would be there in my class? Besides, an entire day would be devoted to motivating (read boring) the students with speeches, anecdotes, slide shows, which no doubt would be lost on drooping eyes, wandering minds and restlessly shifting bodies. But singularly each one would prick their ears as soon as "scholastic" year was mentioned. Nobody ever ruminated on what was it about the word that was supposedly so funny. Probably it sounded too pretentious or may be we were expecting it to pop up any moment. Nevertheless, it would set our laughter muscles rolling.

Now, looking back I realise those "scholastic" years in school were well spent. It was here that the rudiments of lifelong edification are planted. The seeds of personality sown and watered here are etched for life. Then again, they were days of innocent indulgence. Days, when you could afford to be stupid without worrying about the enormity of your actions. It was here that you made friends without being too judgmental. Where you were too young to have any political affiliations. Where hard work always paid and was appreciated, and where once you spoke to God every day!

Oh, I crave

Desire is the root cause of all sorrow - Gautama Buddha.

I follow happiness, but I am unable to hold it, because desire has bound me in its tenacious arms. I try to extricate myself out of her tight grasp and start running. Yonder I see happiness tantalisingly beckoning me. But as I reach out to her, she vamooses. I feel a slight tug at my skirt. Looking down I see a gleam of wickedness in her eyes.
When will she stop bothering me? And when will I finally catch up with happiness.

Faithfuls on a Tuesday!

If you happen to be on the Mumbai roads - somewhere between Dadar and Worli to be precise - during the wee hours of Tuesday, something very singular will attract you.
The steady flow of people, headed towards a common destination. The unearthly hours and the consequent absence of public transport is hardly a hindrance. They are all happy enjoying their padyatra on a divine night.

I see groups of boys and girls, some in shorts and T-shirts, others in track pants legging it to Prabhadevi. I could as well have mistaken them for early bird fitness freaks or would-be doctors from the nearby medical colleges out for a morning trot.
Then there are families comprising father, mother, sons, daughters; the ladies dressed in garish sarees, salwars, a matching bindi, glass bangles, lips painted crimson, eyes coated with black liner (where do they get the time), the men relatively sober in printed shirts and matching trousers.

When I come to know it's mission "Appease Lord Ganesha", I am perplexed.
To forgo a night's sleep and legging it all the way to Prabhadevi from their homes (some do that and Mumbai is not shrinking) was truly amazing.

But why do I see girls and boys in shorts and track pants. Probably they thought they could make it a two-in-one. An early morning walk coupled with a darshan of their favourite God on his favourite day. What a holy exercise!
But, I wondered how Lord Ganesha felt when he saw these boys and girls? Would he cringe at the sight of girls shamelessly flaunting their well-toned brown legs, or would he be too shy to even sneak a look. By now, he would probably be accustomed to such sights. After all if people can change, why couldn't the Gods?
If girls could discard sarees and salwars kameez for the comforts of jeans, skirts, shorts, I am sure Ganesha would readily discard these archaic, conservative, feminist notions of propriety. He would definitely understand. And then consider their sacrifice. Wasn't it enough they had forsaken their sleep and overworked their poor legs.

And then the Siddhivinayak temple was always known for its tolerance. Isn't that the reason even faithful Christians and Muslims flock to this place without the fear of being shunned. Yes, Ganpatiji tolerates them, though the followers of his faith can't stand them. (I wonder if they can even stand each other).

For that I would thank god for the Christians and Muslims. At least the Hindus are united in disliking them. In this united mission, they at least tolerate (if not like) each other.
Especially, when a certain Bal Thackeray is busy churning out new enemies for the Marathi manoos.
Earlier, it was the South Indians stealing the coveted government jobs. Then it was the Muslims, making bomb blasts at will. And now the North Indians.
But then who can blame them for hating the North Indians. I could make a whole list of their crimes. They do think the roads are a big, public spittoon, where they can release their pan-mixed saliva at will. Why roads, buses, elevators, footpaths, staircases, public walls, building walls, walls where it is clearly written ithe thunko naka!
Then they shamelessly grope Mumbai. Yes, they almost rape her. I wish their overactive loins would behave themselves.
So, why blame the poor Maharashtrians for hating them. And these non-Maharashtrians, always stealing their jobs. So, Balasaheb has a point.
I always thought Mumbai is human because of her Maharashtrians. Simple, austere, God-fearing. They are a disciplined lot. So accommodating. A whole family of six wouldn't mind wriggling it out in a one-room flat. And then they eat non-veg only on Wednesdays and Sundays. Good way to economise as I see it. Of course, they are religious. So they even avoid killing mice, because Lord Ganesha likes them. Most make it to Siddhivinayak without fail every Tuesday and if not they ensure their presence in any of the numerous Ganesha temples in their vicinity.

I have been to Siddhivinayak just thrice to be precise in the 25 years I have been in Mumbai. Blame it on my indolence, or my inability to tolerate huge crowds. When I pray, I need a peaceful ambience. Only the occasional clonk of the bells should break my monologue with God. Nothing else. I do not want to be manhandled, pushed and jostled, when all I want is a glimpse of my God and feel his smiling, benevolent eyes on me.
But I still envy the faithful, who without fail keep their appointment with God every Tuesday, while I lazily make excuses of corruption, omnipresence, peace.
Well, if God is everywhere, why do I need to go to temple to see him, or talk to him. Wouldn't the numerous pictures I have at home suffice to appeal to his magnanimity.
Yes, you can avoid the serpentine queues and get a speed Darshan if you pay Rs 50.
But wouldn't that be exploiting people's faith?
And would this God even want to see me, if I pay money to see him quickly?
Or would he like me more because I shelled out extra to get his darshan?
Yes, and I also happen to know the guard at the temple. So if I really want he will allow me in for free that too without breaking a sweat. So would my God love me more because I happened to know the guard. Then what about those who had waited for almost three hours to get a darshan?
of course, they wouldn't know what I did, but then how would I refrain from cursing myself for the ungodly act.
So, I would rather sit at home and admire and envy those, who make it every Tuesday without fail. Or catch a fleeting glimpse of the faithfuls plodding along as I trundle past in my office transport.

Deed, indeed!

Producing two 10-rupees bill from my purse, I placed it into his shrivelled, doddering palms. "Nahin aap yeah rak lo" he said vehemently shaking his head. Puzzled I kept insisting with a smile. I was touched.
I had told the cab driver to keep the change. Instead of taking additional six rupees from me he preferred to forego his four. What a soul! My heart went out to that honest, old driver.
I insisted he keep the change and ran away from the scene. Contented and smug, I pondered over the event once more. I was on my way to an interview then. I had supposedly done a good deed.
Yet, something irked my conscience.
Was it unconditional? I couldn't dispel thoughts of an ulterior motive.
There probably lurked in me a latent desire to appease the gods. Would I behave the same way if I was hot, perspiring, late for work and in a foul mood?
Food for thought.

Perdition due to a weak bladder!

Travelling is never fun for me. Not that I do not like to, but a weakness debilitates me.
Yes, I have a weak bladder. A bladder that sometimes makes me question the whole point of living this life.
There have been times when I have been moved to tears, too embarrassed or too much in pain, just hoping that I can relieve myself in time.
While I see the more blessed, gulping down gallons, I am forced to exercise restraint.
I cannot travel in a bus for more than four hours at a stretch. That would invariably provoke my uncooperative bladder into asserting itself. And if the sun is at its searing best, even a soothing drought of lime soda is denied to me.
When I am in a plane, I am constantly subjugated into making bashful trips to the loo.
In the train my agonies only get better. Notwithstanding, that I am constantly badgered by prying, intrepid eyes, my constant jaunts to the lavatory is an assault on my olfactory senses. Not to forget the countless times I have had to endure, eye-revolting, nose-wrenching stench out of sheer desperation at bus depots, railways stations, roadside toilets...
It's not once or twice that my bladder has cheated on me. Innumerable times.
It was the first day of my Class X tutorials. Timid and shy I entered a class of at least 60, half of which comprised "boys". Having studied in a girl's school, it was far from an ideal situation. A quarter of an hour into the class, my bladder started its quirky tantrums. The aircon only worsened the situation as time flew by. At the end of the 60 minutes class, blinded by tears, I had to make a frantic leap for the door before the next tutor stepped in.
Paranoid by my humiliation, every furtive glance was interpreted as people secretly laughing at me.
In college, at the end of a Math class taught by a male professor, I made a cacophonous rush to the lavatory. I was hysterical and wasn't thinking. Well, at least I made the class laugh.
Thankfully, by the time I made it to degree college, asking professors for permission was considered too much of a hassle, and I willingly made water, not only once but also twice, thrice during lectures.
But the worst was not over. Once I made a three and a half hour bus-trip from a village in Kottayam to Kochi, Kerala. I was supposed to visit a cousin in Kochi and then take a flight to Mumbai the next day. I had two pieces of luggage with me and was supposed to travel alone. But on my grandma's insistence (for which I am forever grateful to her) she argued that I was too young to travel alone and that my uncle should accompany me.
That day I was fasting. I did not even have a glass of water. Just a few bunches of grapes. Little did I know their malicious intent.
Within an hour after the bus started, my bladder made its presence felt. I was writhing and squirming in my seat. To top it, a girl came and dumped her heavy school bag on my lap. The pain was excruciating.
I thought of all the possibilities. Should I flash one of my seductive smiles (does not exist) and ask the driver to stop at a roadside house? Should I just make a puppy face and beg him for mercy? Should I just tell my uncle and leave the onus of finding a suitable arrangement to him?
Should I just bear it? The thought that I may die because my bladder would burst, began to sneak in on me. With morbid humiliation I imagined the news headlines, next day. "Girl dies after bladder bursts".
What a shameful way to die? I was so flustered, I started moaning to the lady sitting next to me. Poor woman. She empathised with me. But what more could she do?
Finally, I got up and signalled to my uncle. Even now, the perplexed look he gave me that day, does not fail to evoke a chortle or two. I got down at a bus depot, some 3 km away from my intended destination. What a relief it was as I deposited my luggage with my uncle and made a run for it. I had pushed the headlines for some other time, thankfully.
After that for a long time I was extra cautious to avoid such situations.
However, morbid thoughts revisited me two months ago, when travelling to Singapore.
I had just settled down to enjoy my orange juice on a Singapore Airlines flight.
I love orange juice and had a second helping. Obviously, nature called. Of course, there are lavatories in the plane. But you restrict your visit to twice at the most. When it becomes three, four eyes start wondering. It's not easy to be constantly getting up and moving around in a plane.
I was so frustrated, I didn't want to live anymore. My whole life is spent pampering my bladder. I was positively exasperated.
Well, the only consolation was my mother assured me that drinking lots of barley water would strengthen the said trouble-maker. I have not yet tried the remedy. But plans to do soon. Till then, a prayer for my weakness...

The Unlikely Virgin

It's time for some night mulling. After three months of wallowing in the ordinary day-lit world, it is again the bad old night shifts. But this time there is a difference. I return to the city, which supposedly never sleeps.
A city that's bursting on its seams with unbridled money, people and now high rises.
Speeding past the empty but "not desolate" city roads in the wee hours of night, I notice a sensuous side of Mumbai. A disgusting thought for most.
Gazing out the windows of an SUV that conveys me into the arms of sweet repose daily, I feel a sense of calm. There are no vehicles emitting constant dissonance into the putrid air, no pallid urchins scampering in intrepid haste, no pedestrians scurrying cheek by jowl on the narrow pavements, no hawkers spilling their wares on to the half-baked, ill-dug roads.
The city discards its termagant image and takes on the garb of a nubile sixteen-old-year old lost on a balmy invigorating night.
At this point my imagination runs wild and I experience the sexual excitement of an unworldly adolescent gurgling with anticipation.
The street light glowing in wonted indolence sheds its reluctant radiance on the tranquil streets accentuating her every curve, every contour. In her arms, rest the innocents unsullied by the vagaries of a brutal detached world.
The balmy winds rushing in through the windows ripple my hairs, tingle my senses. I am aroused.
She is lovely in her ripe nakedness.
Deep in thoughts, I realise how much the city is ill-treated. She is constantly abused, misused, violated, yet at night with an alluring pleasant smile, she welcomes me into her arms.
And into her fecund moistness, I dissolve.

In joy

Enjoy every step of your life
With moments of joy make it rife

Enjoy the murky ethereal clouds in sky
Spraying juice with vehement finesse

Enjoy the blistering smolder of sunray
Piercing us with its incessant glare

Enjoy the turbulent waves that swallow sea
Churning its way in tremulous glee

Enjoy things you see and dislike
For it makes life a trifle more worthwhile

A prayer

With hands joined I pray my dear God
The giver of this wonderful earth, my sweet abode

To you I look up in times of need
Hoping to gratify you with every deed

At times when filled with dismay
I looked up to you to show me the way

When fury overcome me and made me spite
I looked at you and knew the right

A world that feeds on misery and dread
I rely on you to guide my tread

Protect my family, my friends each day
With them my life joy lay

Help make my life so meaningful
Making time spent sweet blissful

Even the withering flowers solace provide
When I feel your presence by my side

To the Son

As I stand lost in thoughts
I hear the soft beckoning
Try hard to ignore the calling
But deep down my love gushes
As I am pulled towards him
His benevolent smile infuse
Serene happiness, as in calm agony
I surrender my will to him
Eyes closed I wonder who is it
The image so vivid, so true
O Jesus all along it was you

Arrogance thy destruct

Arrogance thy not stride
In life as I glide
On tremors or scaling height
Ensure not my path you blight

Arrogance thy not stir
Emotions in folly, anger
Of passions unbridled
That better lie unkindled

Arrogance thy not pain
If bereft or in gain
Of prudence smells success
Off this track not digress

Arrogance thy destruct
All that liven, comfort
Excess pride precedes fall
In obviation is good of all

The elephant phase

A rotund haze conjures form
In holy stupor I swoon
Holding hands close to heart
Eyes shut tight I swivel

Of a being on the mouse
In corpulence no worse
Flowery essence permeate air
Seeping in the holy flair

Swallowing the chakra
Of your uncle, you tease
Clasping ears cross-handed
Holding you in splits appease

O, lover of orchard produce
You savour them and ladoos
Touching the nimble feet
In absolute mirth I seethe

You taught us of a world
Your parents, your universe
Worship them, pray to them
The victor you my supreme

Unceasing devotion I profess
Never undulate my verve
In fervid vigour I serve
To success, you my access

The Blue Divine

Is it your face that I see
As the shutters on my eyes
Heavy with morning slumber
Lazy, groaning open slight

Is it peacock feather I see
Swaying ginger in dawn air
The shiny black curls modest
Virile, tingle and titillate

Is it flute seeking your lips
Ductile move those finger tips
Blowing rhythms in holy splendour
Instilling mirth, dispelling fear

Is it sparkle of stone-etched rings
Or the glint of your aurous bangles
Maybe it is the glimmer of amulet
Lost in servile love, I adulate

Basking in your blue radiance
I remember stories of dalliance
Myths and legends of a divine form
Smirking, luring never forlorn

Divine, I'm fine

You I made mine
In your love
I wallow, Into me
It seeps infusing
Divine

Energy, grace
In your embrace
Stems the sweet
Smell of success

As my steps
falter in diffidence
Reach out and
you make me steady

You my almighty
Me you console
Me you hold
I am bold

Divine, I whine

When I feel blue
To you I rue
Would it cease
Quell my unease

Of a misdeed
You I unheed
Now to repent
To you I vent

Dearest Lord
My honour
My word
No more I err

In your belief
I survive
This life I have
You my only relief

Absolve me
Of misery
Of greed
Of this breed

Her almighty
Is the truth
Is the peace
She is at ease

The polythene post

There was much to say. To formulate words that would fall on ears unseen to the mortal world. Words that would beg for a vocal response. A smile unblurred, a frown well-contoured. How would I ever tell him, the story of my escapades in school? How would I ever know what he thought of his little emboldened girl ogling the finer versions of the male species? How would I ever see the appreciative slant of his eyebrows as I gracefully mingled limbs to conjure the most exquisitive of classical repertoires?
I wondered whether he just knew? Was he omniscient like God himself that he did not need me to tell him? Was he watching when I thought he was not? These were the questions rankling my thought devices.
I gazed at the portrait on the wall. I run hither-thither and the eyes follow me. I hide behind a couch and peer through a gap. He still sees me.
Would he answer me if I asked? Maybe I could write a letter. But I had to post it somewhere and give it an address. I knew the place but did not know the exact address. I decided I would take a chance. I ran to my shelf, produced a notebook and tore off two sheets of lined paper.
Selecting the royal blue ink pen I used in school, I set myself pouring my heart out. That I had finally made it among the top five in the class, that I had scored a 39 out of 40 in Mathematics, that I had been rejected for the elocution contest and was sore about it, that my best friend had started speaking to me again, that I still went to dance class though I had to go by bus instead of taxi (how I hated it), that I still ate a lot of rice and was fat, that mother had started going to office and so when I came back from school she wouldn't be there to feed me, and last and not least I still suckled at my fingers and was scared my teeth would protrude and make me really ugly! I wrote willingly and shamelessly, transforming feelings into words, which smudged as tears and ink mingled.
After it was done, I perused the written carnage cringing as every blatant revelation evoked shame and fear.
But he had to know. Now to post it! I thought of just flinging it out of the window. But then there lurked a possibility of someone reading it. I couldn't let that happen. I returned to my shelf and rummaged through my water colour collection looking for black.
Having found it, I chose the fattest brush possible and set about shabbily painting my letter. The intention was to hide the words, so the letter now looked like a black canvas, a visible blank but behind which lurked the murk of my being.
Selecting an envelope I inserted the letter and deposited it inside a blue polythene bag. Then I attached a piece of string to it and flinged it outside the balcony.
Thankfully the wind was strong and it carried the bag high into the wide blue sky. I squinted at the unfathomable expanse above till just a speck is visible. It was safe. It would reach him that day itself.
So thinking I scooted off from the scene.


To my father,
Subhash Chandran
Heaven, Sky, c/o God.

The final view

A tight knot formed in my stomach as I tried to grapple with the reality. I would be really leaving my home. The only home I ever knew and had. Though simple and austere, this was where I had found warmth, comfort and when I concentrated, there even in the remotest corner I could see lurking the smiling, compassionate image that beamed down upon me. An image that fails to wipe itself off my memory. An image that even after 17 years of separation still lingers vividly in my mind. An image that I crave to stifle with my hug, smother with my kisses, pin down to the earth and crush with the weight of my being.
How could this be happening to me, I wondered as my eyes smarted, hot tears welling up at will. Was it not enough that I had to contend with an irreplaceable absence from my life? Now I had to leave the only abode where I still felt the presence, where every nook and corner conjured up images of another life of a past nestled in comfort, snug in love, embedded in security.
Peering out of the window, I espied the lone verdant relief on the road. The final view.
I hopped on to the bed, resting my head on his pillow. Picking up a magazine I began to skim through in his style. I was he. I breathed hard, gulping in the still air. Was it imagination or did a familiar perfurme wafting through the mournful air tingle my nose?
I looked around. I decided, I became strong. Take me out of my home, but could you take my home out of me? Victory grinned at me as I simpered back. I would carry him with me to my new dwelling. I would place him there, hold him there, bore him with my poor jokes, fret him with my silly worries, inundate him with my myriad queries and lie to him when in the wrong. That's what I would do and suddenly my world became bright. My happy past would water my uncertain future. I would love him till death. My father, who left me to occupy God's acre when I was 11.
But I never lost him. He still lives with me!